


Hitch your wagon to a star

by glovered



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Treehouse fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-23
Updated: 2011-05-23
Packaged: 2017-10-24 09:16:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glovered/pseuds/glovered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Totally cliche fix-it tree house fic. As in, littered with cliches. Grit-your-teeth style shamelessness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hitch your wagon to a star

"C'mon, man. Like this is weird for us at all."

"It really is, Dean."

"We're alive." Dean put the whiskey bottle back in its roughly hewn pine shelf with a clunk. "We are alive and kicking, and yeah you might be insane, but a little insanity is par for the course, is how I figure. We got out by the seat of our pants, and now you're going to get better. We just gotta grit our teeth and ride it out."

"Maybe you should just leave me," Sam said. "Go off on your own for a while. You don't want this."

"No fucking way." Dean swallowed the whiskey down and, feeling the hard burn that the cheap stuff gave you, poured himself another. "I mean, seriously. You can barely make it a day without...without you know."

"Having a nervous breakdown, you mean."

"Yeah. So we'll lie low. We're not exactly the most popular folks around town if you know what I'm saying."

Sam looked down at his hands, where they were dangling between his knees. "Thanks, Dean. Really man. But isn't it a little weird? I can't really explain it myself, but I just feel _safer_ , you know?"

Dean shrugged. "If I was in your situation, I'd drink myself comatose, and I know you'd be supporting me every step of the way. So if you say tree house? I'll build you a damn tree house. And look around you, it's awesome."

"I guess. Where are you going?"

"I'm starving. Picking up dinner. Chinese?"

"Yeah, Chinese."

He opened the trap door and scooted down it. He got his foot in the crook of a branch and caught Sam's eye, tried to look as sure as humanly possible. "As far as I'm concerned, life is beautiful, the fact that we survived this far at all. You figure out the odds of that, you get back to me."

Then he was out into the cool evening air and swinging himself down the trunk of their tree.

    


    


  
They were sleeping on an old mattress they'd bought at a thrift store. The sheets had been one dollar and hilarious at the time, Disney Princess themed for obvious reasons and covered in a clean comforter. Now Dean woke to Sam's 3am nightmares with Cinderella's face large and eerie between them in the glow of the camping light as he wrestled Sam into stillness and held on until the shaking stopped.

They ate off of paper plates but drank out of two heavy tumblers they'd bought at the same store. They restocked their two green coolers with food and ice from a grocery store two miles away, Dean doing the driving because Sam only left when he really had to, like after three days to take a shower at the one pool in the run down town nearby.

It was all useless endeavors and endless summer, and also this edging of desperate joy because yeah, they were alive, but what the hell were they supposed to do about the events of the last few months? Dean couldn't even bring himself to contemplate. Every day, Sam would drink cold orange juice and sit with his feet dangling out the hole in the floor, half-reading the newspaper while Dean pulled at beef jerky with his teeth and spliced EMF readers and flashlights.

When things got bad, Dean pulled the trap door closed by the rope and secured it tight as Sam shuddered on the mattress at three in the afternoon and stared into the middle distance of a waking dream.

    


    


  
"It hasn't been easy," Dean said. "But what ever is, right? Yeah he has his bad days, but Sam and me...I hesitate to say, but we've been lucky on this one."

"Believe me, I'm counting the ways." Bobby sighed into the phone. "Frankly, this is probably as best as we could have hoped for. After all that kid's been through, it makes sense he'd be playing with a deck of fifty-one."

"I figure we'll lie low for a while, until it passes over." Dean knew it went unspoken, that what if, what if it _didn't_ pass over. But there was no sense thinking about it. "We're tighter than two coats of paint anyway, we could use a totally expense-free vacation."

"You're really living up a tree?"

"Hell yes we are. Building took time, but it was dirt cheap. We picked up some of those wooden pallets and some ply wood lying around behind Home Depot. Three days and we had fucking farmer's tans and splinters. I hammered my thumb real good. Haven't heard Sam laugh like that in a while."

"Right," Bobby sounded unsure, but that was nothing new.

"It ain't half bad," Dean said. "Sure if you'd of told me a year ago, a month ago even, that I'd be giving in to something crazy as this, holing up in a tree after nearly—" His words caught in his throat. It was too soon to talk about, always would be. "Anyway, I would've told you to stick it where the sun don't shine, but after everything we've done and seen, this doesn't rank high. I can't really help him directly, you know? The least I can do is do anything in my power to make him happy, help him ride it out."

Dean listened to Bobby sigh into the phone again. "I gotta say, I'm damn impressed with you two. You really do suffer the ravages, and I'm not talking good fortune here. You deserve to take a breather."

"Thanks, Bobby."

"Gimme a call if you get sick of bird song and want someplace comfortable to go. I've got running water and everything."

"Yeah, I will," Dean said. "Although I'm not too big on Wisconsin."

"Had to move somewhere inconspicuous."

"Yeah, I know. Oh and Bobby?"

"Yeah?"

"You take care of yourself."

"You know me," Bobby grumbled. "By hunter standards, I'm a survivor. Like a roach. Well, gimme a call later this week. I'll tell you what I've come up with regarding the lore on...well...on God. Gotta do something with myself."

"We really owe you one. Bye, Bobby."

    


    


  
Sam had been covering his face with both hands for the last two hours. He wasn't asleep and Dean knew there wasn't one thing he could do, but damn if he wasn't wracking his brains for something.

The tree house seemed really small at times like these. It was only seven feet across and five feet wide, but it was surprisingly roomy, with a really stable floor, well-secured on each branch. They'd chosen a great tree for it. Dean had always wanted a tree house and was tentatively having the time of his freaking life.

Now, though, he drank a few slugs of whiskey and went out to lie in the back seat of the car. He woke up hours later, at nine pm with his cheek sticky against the leather with drool and his knees jammed uncomfortably against the driver's side.

The devil burned cold. He'd been dreaming about that, sympathy dreams. From what Dean could gather from the snippets of horror story, Sam had lit himself on fire while he was down there, to try to thaw. It hadn't helped; he'd just crisped up and melted flesh off on the outside while Michael and Lucifer had a real field day etching swirled designs into the chilly despair of his soul, shaving away at him with razor blades and breaking him to shards from the inside out.

"You son of a bitch," Dean whispered, pushing a hand over his face, rubbing at his sleepy eyes. "You fucking son of a—"

He drove out and bought another blanket for their bed. He installed an insulation system, cheap rugs like tapestries on the floors and walls.

    


    


  
The car had been crushed when it flipped. Bobby had helped Dean remove the roof and so they'd driven it out here like a convertible, a wonder it could even drive at all.

"It looks horrible," Dean lamented as Sam crouched on the grass and hammered six planks together to make a shelf. It was searing heat outside, even though they were in the dappled clearing of the forest. Sam didn't seem to mind. He was hammering away, wearing a white t-shirt and ripped jeans, and looked like some minor deity.

"Mmm," he hummed, and slammed another nail home. He stood the half-shelf on its side, nails held between his teeth.

"Baby doesn't run on looks alone, true," Dean said. He wandered around the back of the car, stroking the finish. "But I gotta do something."

Sam silently reached up to hand him his cell phone, accompanied by a pat on the ankle. Dean set about hunting down parts.

    


    


  
They weren't free of visitors. They had an owl that nested just above them who made for a typical neighbor, hooting at odd hours and shitting on their lawn. They also had a raccoon that tried to get into their trash which they had hung out the side window on a branch.

Once, too, some mountain bikers shouted up at them. Dean clambered down in his pjs and flashed a badge he'd pulled at random from his duffel and sent them on their way, duly impressed.

By Dean's calculation, they must've met a hundred times the amount of folks people usually met over the span of their lifetimes, such that he didn't exactly feel the need for any other company than Sam's just about now. Solitude was fine. More than fine, actually. It felt like solace.

    


    


  
"It's sink or swim," Sam said, sleep-softened and voice hoarse. "I keep reminding myself that."

"Exactly. And it's nothing you can do anything about now; they're memories."

"I know."

Despondency, thy name is Sam, Dean thought, and kicked Sam lightly in the side. "Yeah? Okay then. Try to keep your head above water until I get back."

He walked backwards to the car, hands in his pockets, watching Sam's feet dangle down the trap door. He wanted to run and tug at Sam's socked feet, do something annoying, but that would be an unwelcome surprise, probably. But later. Later he'd do it, when they were back at the point where he could sneak attack without causing some serious mental damage.

He drove into the one road town and picked up donuts, even though it was nigh on noon and the day was so hot his legs stuck to the seat through the back of his jeans. The woman at the counter gave him half a dozen donut holes for his smile and he tipped her with an extra wink. He sped back to their neck of the woods and rolled into the mess of trees with the paper bag on the seat next to him and two cups of coffee held hot and precarious between his thighs.

He was getting some great muscle definition, pulling himself up the tree like this. They'd rigged a pulley system so they could get drinks up, to a 75% success rate. He held the donut bag under an arm.

Sam liked French crullers and glazed twists and bear claws, so Dean had bought them all. He ate an apple fritter in seconds along with a jelly donut, and then spent an indulgent and erotic minute sucking granulated sugar off his own fingertips, out from under his nails, watching Sam pick one donut apart and dip it in his coffee.

"You sleep?" he finally asked.

Sam winced at the heat of the coffee, tonguing a drip off his bottom lip and cradling the cup in two hands. "A little."

He sipped quietly for a time and then lay gingerly back into the pillows to stare at the wall.

Nothing meant anything anymore, Dean could read it on his face, although Sam would probably never voice it. They had a laptop full of downloaded movies, a library nearby with books, but what were human contrivances compared to the narrative of their lives? It was unnatural.

Dean wasn't bored. More often than not, the jobs they took required them to work round the clock, to sit still for hours on end: stakeouts, when they were kidnapped, when they were in some motel in one of the rainier states and it was pouring so hard that pulling the drapes meant looking out into a carwash. Dean had crossed the country countless times, in frenetic zigs and zags with Sam beside him. This was the same. They were heading somewhere, just had to wait it out.

"Slow and steady," Dean said, and tossed his empty styrofoam cup into the bag out the window.

Sam didn't respond, just put a hand over his eyes. Dean gave an exaggerated sigh and did what he'd been thinking of for the last month, maybe most of his life. He collapsed next to Sam on the bed, the floor giving a strange creak. Sam said, "What are you—"

"You're on my damn side," Dean said, and manhandled him into a comfortable position under his arm.

Sam didn't protest. He fell into it, and eventually fell asleep again. It was 1pm and Dean could tell he was asleep because his breathing went deep and his hand uncurled from over his eyes to rest on the pillow.

    


    


  
"Man, it is dry as a popcorn fart," Dean said one afternoon, when they'd been in the forest for three weeks.

"Sometimes I wonder who the crazy one is here," Sam said.

"The heat is brutal and unforgiving," Dean told him, taking in a breath of hot air. "And it feels great."

Sam had woken up that morning with the need to make, rather than buy, chairs. They would be rough and Dean's ass would hurt, but a sore ass was better than Sam left unemployed for too long, and they really did need a place to sit other than the floor.

Dean lounged back on the towel in the shade, pillowing his hands behind his head on a jacket. He watched Sam hack away at the wood with practiced intent, falling into a sort of heat-induced lethargy of having nowhere to be but now, here.

He caught up to his thoughts minutes later. He was apparently watching the play of Sam's muscles, and the focus of his eyes, giving slow consideration to Sam's mouth. Just cataloging, all honest appreciation.

When Sam took off his shirt, Dean muttered, "Jesus."

Sam turned. "What was that?"

"I said, you're turning into a carpenter, like Jesus."

Sam shrugged and Dean's eyes followed slow sweat trickling down and under the waist of Sam's jeans.

"Anyway," Sam was saying. He stood and stretched and Dean rolled his eyes at his own reaction. He was used to making an inventory of physical signs of distress and then choosing which ones to disregard, and this was one such moment. The sight of Sam like this was like a punch to the gut which he was choosing to ignore.

He slapped himself awake and with it despite how he wanted to do something, anything, while Sam said, "You think we should like, camouflage it or something? Hide in plain sight? Those bikers came by. We're pretty visible to anyone who comes this way, and we're not that far into the woods."

"What, like, cover the outside with more branches?"

"Yeah, and maybe paint the wood a little?" Sam looked genuinely interested, like scaling around the outside of the tree house painting foliage would be some feat that would test their expertise. Dean had had Sam pegged a long time ago: adrenaline junky with artistic tendencies.

"I mean, I know how you like climbing around in trees," Sam said. "And getting your hands dirty."

So maybe Dean liked that sort of thing, too. He looked calculatingly up at their misshapen creation. The pale wood was almost blinding in the sunlight.

"Sounds good," he said. "I'll go in today and find us some paint."

    


    


  
Dean added the finishing touch on the final leaf. He craned his neck and saw that Sam was pretty much done with the sky, standing over on the other side of the jutting floor boards, painting the spaces between the twigs an unconvincing cyan.

"This is butt fuck ugly," Sam said conversationally. He sounded pleased. And yeah, Dean was pleased too. Their tree house was very hippie-vanesque.

"I think it's adorable," Dean said. "Our first real home together." He fluttered his eyelashes but Sam wasn't looking his way. He was slapping the last bit of blue with a brush over clean wood, his tongue peeking out between his lips in concentration.

"Done," he said.

They set about gathering the canisters into the cardboard box and Dean reached to put it in the open hole of a window on the shelf on the other side. Sam put the brushes in the tub of water and swished them around and then shook them off the side.

"It's hard not to think of the ground as a trash can," Sam said. "Probably what the angels think, actually."

"Not so environmental when you don't gotta walk in it, are you, Sam?" When he looked up, Sam was smiling in that way of his, to himself, leaning with shoulders pressed into a branch, like he was considering something great in his mind.

"Share with the class," Dean said. He rubbed his hands with a dirty cloth and then threw that in the window as well.

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but then thought better of it and just shook his head. Dean arched an eyebrow at him and waited, rubbing a hand over the sweat at the back of his neck and wiping his hands on his jeans. Sometimes you just needed to give Sam time to battle with himself or whatever.

Sam finally reached out a hand and said, "Get over here."

"What was that?" Dean put a hand to his ear.

"Stop being a dick, Dean." This was accompanied by a shove at the shoulder because Dean had, as always, started forward the second Sam asked and was now in proximity.

"Oh, I'm the di—" Dean cut off, though, when Sam's hand reached to muss his hair. He felt himself go golden all over with Sam's fingers scratching against his scalp, felt shivers at the back of his neck and across his shoulders like he was hotwired from a run.

"You've got paint," Sam told him. "all over, flecks of it." He shoved the heel of his palm over Dean's cheek next, and Dean leaned into it. You know, to help him rub off the paint.

Dean was sweating rivers, felt it trickling down his back with Sam's palms on his cheeks for longer than was probably necessary and then slipping down the side of his neck into his shirt. The feel of Sam's hands was near indistinguishable from the hot heat of sunlight burning into his skin.

Dean grabbed at the bottom of his damp t-shirt and yanked it up between them to rub his face all over with the fabric.

"Did I get it all?" he asked.

Sam said, "told you we needed a mirror," and Dean pushed him, but not too hard, because he didn't want to shove Sam out of the tree, not really.

    


    


  
They played endless card games. War, rummy, gin rummy, ten kinds of poker where they used their shared funds to bid against one another, along with slips of paper with favors written on them. _Wash the car_ was worth twenty bucks and _foot massage_ was worth a whopping hundred bucks but Dean was reasonably sure Sam would never cash that one in. He hoped.

What Sam needed was distraction. Dean knew this. He submitted to an hour of tortured chess games every day, which he kind of hated but his awe at Sam's freaky ability to win every single game grew.

Sam gave him some talk about metaphorically working his thoughts over through structured logic of games, which seemed legit, but he needed to get out a little too. To this end, Dean picked up a soccer ball from the gas station convenience store and when Sam felt okay they spent hours playing a sort of violent kicking and sprinting game through the trunks of the trees. The forest felt like a pause in time and an open field that could have been anywhere.

    


    


  
Around the end of July, when Sam was feeling up to it and hadn't had a violent attack in five days, going on strong, he made Dean put on cleanish clothes and they went to a bar in town. It was weird. Dean was jumping at every little noise but Sam just ambled on in like they belonged, like he hadn't spent a month battling his demons and running the risk of permanent psychosis.

They got a table and a couple of burgers, and after a few pints each they were lazy-legged and sprawling back, barely talking but Dean felt tentatively great. He drew smiley faces into the cold sweat of his glass with a fingertip. Sam ate his fries slowly with mustard.

Sam went up to grab more drinks, and Dean was forced to follow him when he never came back. He found him talking to some girl with dark hair that went past her shoulders and a wide mouth, gorgeous in the low bar-lights. Sam's type, basically.

"Hey," Dean said. He leaned against the bar, and the girl and Sam turned to look at him. "What's a girl like you doing talking to a dude like this." He nodded in Sam's direction.

The girl gave him an appraising look. "People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones."

Dean took this in stride. "What about _tree_ houses," he said, which earned him a pleasantly confused look.

"Still applies," she decided. "Although not metaphorically."

He grabbed hold of his beer and took a swig, "never mind."

"And what do you do?"

"Ah." He looked over at Sam, wondering what line he'd given her. "Me? Well, I've been fixing up my car, doing some maintenance work. Living the good life, you know. What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't. It's Olivia. And you're Dean, I take it."

"One and only," Dean gave her a cheeky grin.

"Cut it out," she laughed. "I've heard about you."

"What!" Dean looked to Sam, again, who had this innocent expression as he peeled the paper off a beer bottle. "Me?"

"Well aren't you cute?" She looked like she was about to pinch his cheeks for the pure masochistic joy of it, and Dean leaned back fractionally, on guard. One of _those_ , he thought. Immune.

"I don't even _know_ you," he felt compelled to point out.

"Well it's nice to meet you and your brother. You have a leaf in your hair."

He shook his head like a wet dog and, sure enough, a dried leaf fluttered out onto the bar top. Sam just laughed all big and bright and bought Olivia a beer.

    


    


  
"You didn't have to say no on my account," Dean said, once he'd gotten the car in gear and set off in the direction of the forest.

"She wasn't asking," Sam said. He lounged out all relaxed, one of his knees nearly brushing Dean's leg at random.

"Sure she was."

" _Dean_."

Then he was quiet so long Dean got worried, like maybe drinking had tipped him over the edge to pensive in a bad way. But when he glanced over, he saw by the sporadic flash of street lights on Sam's face that his brother was just spacing out staring at him, giving him a look that was kind of dreamy and fond.

"I used to wonder," Sam said. "I always figured you were either playing dumb or actually were that dumb, it was a toss up."

Dean turned off the main drag and onto the dark country road. He said, "Excuse me?" passing a sign that warned for bears.

"But you know," Sam said. "There was some juncture where I stopped giving you the benefit of the doubt. It was a ways back. You really are just that dumb—"

"Hey," Dean said. "Give a man a chance, I have no clue what you're talking about."

"Don't worry, you've still got your looks," Sam told him, and wouldn't say anything further on the subject. They listened to one country song and then they were pulling off into the direction of their clearing, bumping along the hard, dirt ground, avoiding roots.

When Dean pulled the car behind the mass of bramble bushes they were using for cover, he said, "Really though...."

Sam just shook his head and got out of the car. He slammed the door and Dean watched him, silhouetted and drunk, scale the trunk of their tree with ease in the darkness.

    


    


Dean jolted awake.

"Nightmare?" he muttered, his go-to question. The answer was pretty much always yes.

"Seems like it," Sam said. He was seated over in a chair at the table, leaning with his arm out the window.

"Sorry, man."

"It's all right."

Dean got up and pulled the other chair in across from him and Sam switched on the camping light, illuminating their faces and the shelves of guns and brass knuckles, and how the walls were covered in angel banishing sigils like it would help.

"Is this another—I mean, you seem like things are going a little smoother. You okay?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing," Sam said.

"Huh?"

"You were tossing and turning, and I just couldn't go back to sleep, so."

"Oh," Dean said. " _Oh_. I was the one with the nightmare?" He couldn't even remember. He grabbed a bag of peach rings which was already ripped open and pulled out five.

"You're not..." Sam declined a peach ring, and searched for the words. "You're kind of unhappy, right?"

"What?" Because that was completely out of left field. "I'm great, Sammy. There's food in the cooler and we've got a few cards we haven't maxed out. We've got some big bads after us, sure, but they're not going to find us any time soon. We've got four walls and a roof over our heads—"

"Tarp. We have a tarp over our heads."

"Splitting hairs, Sam. What I mean is, I got it all. Can't really complain, can I?"

"You know that's not what I meant," Sam said.

Dean cleared his throat and looked at his hands. "Yeah, I'm doing okay. I've got you, I mean."

"Dean." Sam looked way too sad. It didn't suit him.

"Just, stop, Sam. Stop with this empathy crap, I don't even...wait. Just, wait, hold up." How had it taken him till now to see it? Sam looked like he was about to reach across the table and hold his hand, pet his hair till the tears ended. "Are you...are you trying to cure me? Like I've got the issues? You're the one who's lost your marbles, here."

"Doesn't mean you're not screwed up," Sam said. "Don't tell me you've actually fooled yourself into thinking you're fine."

Dean tried to swallow the mass of peach rings, but just slurped his spit around.

"Oh my god," Sam said, looking impressed and bowled over while Dean labored over chewing. "You have, haven't you?"

"We've survived yet another heavenly showdown," Dean said. "I'd say we're good here."

"So it makes sense you're in shock, you mean. Think about it, Dean. You spend most of your time not doing anything, just lying down or eating sugary food and drinking. You stick close by, which I obviously need, but it's not just that. I basically had to drag you out to the bar the other night."

"First of all," Dean told him. "Not doing anything is what makes it a vacation. Secondly, after all that stuff a while back, who wants to see anyone?"

"Exactly," Sam said. "Face it, you're in shock. It's fine. I just worry, that's all. Maybe—"

"Who's the boss around here anyway?" Dean grumbled.

"It sure as hell isn't you," Sam said gently. "Look at us, Dean, neither of us can really handle what happened. I mean, we shouldn't have to, either, but might as well face the music, right? You are seriously messed up, man. And this is coming from me."

"Fine," Dean said. "But it's not like I want to—"

"I know you don't wanna talk about it, but it's eating away at you." Sam tried to grab his arm, but Dean stood and stepped back from the table. "You haven't said his name since then."

"I'm going back to bed. I didn't wake up for this."

"Dean." Sam took the one step over to the bed and got in next to him. The mattress was seriously too small. Sam was touching him accidentally everywhere, and then on purpose at the hip out of sympathy and Dean wanted to push him out of the tree for real this time.

"I just—I believed in him, okay?" he said, feeling cornered. "Are you happy now?"

Sam remained silent and Dean stopped trying to edge away. He turned so he was on his back and pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes till he saw stars.

"Not just faith," he said. He tried to think of the right way to put that feeling of assurance that he'd gotten around Cas even right there at the end. This sort of loss didn't make sense in his frame of reference. "Not just faith, but yeah, shit, I had faith. And then that last time...it makes my hair stand on end even thinking about it."

"It's okay," Sam said. "To feel betrayed."

"Oh shut up."

Sam pulled Dean back against him and Dean only struggled for a second before leaning back into it. He knew when to pick his battles and he suddenly couldn't muster up the energy to be disgusted at himself right now, here in the dark with only Sam to see. This was a soft roll into the pillows, with Sam all over him, a staying hand on his chest so that Dean felt held together and warmed through.

"It just kind of hurts, you know? Like, a physical ache." He was really getting in it. He felt goosebumps prickle up his arms, and that deep sense of dread, the weight of what ifs. "I wondered at first if maybe he hadn't done that to me, like made me physically weak through the hand print or something. Can that happen?" What if they'd been wrong? What if he hadn't done the right thing, even though he was almost sure there was no right thing? "Anyway—"

"Poor baby."

Dean stilled. "Excuse me?"

"Nothing," Sam said. "Sorry, go on. I'll hold you while you cry."

Dean tried to turn in his arms but Sam held on tight. "Hey, fucker, you said you wanted to hear about my excessive pain and here I am spilling it all, you awful—" He tried to pull away again, but Sam pulled the comforter over their heads like a shelter.

"Pain is just hope leaving the body," he whispered hotly against Dean's ear, and then honest-to-god licked him.

Dean cried war with the suitable amount of outrage and attempted to wrestle Sam into submission, Sam struggling under him and saying, "You're just so _sweet_." and Dean telling him, with fingers pressing where he was most vulnerable, "See if I tell you anything after this. You are a horrible person."

To anyone else this might have been a non-moment, but people always found a way to boil a good thing down to nothing. To Dean it felt like something was being wedged out of the way inside him to make room for something decent.

    


    


  
The car was pretty much done when Dean had a minor sort of accident which involved thinking too much and paying attention too little.

"Ah, shit." He shook out his arm and walked it off. He strode in a few circles around the impala, stepping in some sort of rabbit pellets and shooting a slightly betrayed look at the hood of the car.

He had to get some ice, and he was able to avoid using the aching arm at all on his way up. He was disturbingly used to this climbing thing now. He'd nailed in some steps and a rope just in case.

"Dean!"

"I'm fine, Sammy. Don't you worry your shaggy little—"

Hands yanked him up through the trap door, and Sam loomed over him in pink flannel when he finally stood.

"You're dressed," Dean said.

"Are you all right?"

"Chill, dude. I just dropped the hood on my arm. It's fine, it'll just bruise real pretty."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Not a scratch on me." His voice was even, though Sam had him crowded up against the tree trunk that ran the wall of their place. Dean held up his arm for him to inspect. "See? No blood, no foul. I know we haven't been doing much of anything lately, but you're overreacting, even for you."

He didn't twist away, just steeled himself for whatever brand of crazy Sam was gonna show off today. He was almost kind of fine now. Well, traumatized forever, probably, but not having seizures or anything. Dean was bursting at the seams himself, anyway. It probably ran in the blood.

"Living in the forest has made you even more like Tarzan," Dean said, while Sam held tight to his elbow.

"This looks like it's fine," Sam said. "You probably just bruised the bone. It'll just hurt for a while."

"Like I said."

Sam still held his arm hard between them, frowning like he had some sort of new telekinesis that could fix it all, take the pain away. Instead, to Dean's complete and utter surprise, Sam was suddenly putting his mouth all over the exposed skin of Dean's forearm, his wrist, biting at it slow and twining their fingers together as he did.

"Holy—" Dean said, and sagged into him. Sam instantly had him pressed up against the trunk.

Bark scratched at his lower back and his arm throbbed and his dick throbbed. It was like an off switch and Dean just managed to stay standing, breathing in mostly-silent moans while Sam spread his hands over Dean's ribs and ducked his head to kiss at the hollow of his throat.

"You need some ice," Sam said suddenly. He stepped back and left Dean there to swallow dry-mouthed and weak in the knees.

Sam grabbed a plastic grocery bag and reached with his bare hand into one of the coolers, which he wouldn't have done a month ago; it would have reminded him of something. Dean wanted to cry.

He went and sat on the bed, head swimming. He was hot all over and unsure if what he knew to have just happened had actually just happened. They were up a tree. Then, Sam returned and knelt between Dean's bent knees without hesitation, pressing the tied off grocery bag of ice onto Dean's arm between them over a cloth and then pushing him back on his elbows to cover him completely, bodily.

In seconds there was frigid water running between them, soaking through Dean's already sweat-soaked t-shirt. They both smelled like B.O. and not enough showers and nature, and Dean's arm hurt like a bitch, but Sam was kissing him into the Little Mermaid pillow and working a hand shamelessly under things.

"What the actual fuck," Dean finally said, so turned on he could barely form words.

Sam sat back on his heels, and Dean's body felt physically bereft.

"Kissing it better?" Sam tried. He looked shifty, less intense and more familiar. He looked like he expected Dean to stop him.

"Right," Dean said. "Good enough for me." He hooked a leg around the back of Sam's knee, and judo-splayed him down again.

"Fuck yes," Sam said.

Dean reached a hand between them and felt Sam hard in his jeans, and Sam groaned and pressed him further into the thin mattress. The floor squeaked in protest and Dean splayed his legs while Sam kissed slow at his jaw. Their boots knocked together, but neither of them cared that they were still clothed and it was afternoon. They didn't even know what day it was.

Sam got Dean's t-shirt off and then his own. His fingers pressed hard against Dean's chest, along where Cas had made them unplottable on any Heavenly map. Dean thought maybe Cas'd known all along that there'd come a time, this time, where maybe he'd wanted to save them from himself.

He had this indulgent hope, low in his stomach. Sam looked younger, shiny as a new dime, a lucky penny, as he rolled Dean into the covers and eased Dean's mouth open under his with a certain heartbreaking finesse.

"We gonna be okay?" Dean asked as he tugged Sam's jeans down to his knees, followed by his boxers. He yanked his own pants down while Sam bit devoutly at his bottom lip and then his shoulder.

"Come hell or high water," Sam promised.

"I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say you—"

"Enough with the tree jokes, man."

"But they're so punny...."

They had sex coiled in the sheets, and it was _awesome_.

    


    


  
_Epilogue_

Their moment of respite lasted for two months and three days, long enough for Sam to get good at carpentry, and Dean to let him win at chess at least a hundred times.

It was mid-August, and their stay didn't end naturally with a waning of the summer and a tug of the real world. It was cut short, clean and abruptly, with the arrival of a dorky tween smack dab in the middle of their studio apartment in the tree.

The kid looked instantly familiar. It took all of ten seconds to place him. He had big gullible eyes and a tan that was from Australia where he'd been living for the past two years until one day he thought it might be easier to dream up a tree house rather than build it—his father had told him it was too dangerous to use power tools.

"Oh," the antichrist said. "I know you."  



End file.
